Ante Ludum Conditam
by Somnia Obscura
Summary: Before they founded much of anything, they were four individuals— four individuals with clashing opinions and dramatically different perspectives on how things are and were and should be. -It was never so much of an agreement as it was an argument.-


Disclamer:

**Fan **_n._ an enthusiastic devotee or follower. [short for** Fanatic**]

**Fiction **_n_. the class of literature comprising works of imaginative narration, especially in prose form.

**Fanfiction** _n._ unlicensed fictional stories about celebrities or fictional characters, written by fans. [compound of **Fan** + **Fiction**]

As this is, indeed, fanfiction, as in fiction by a fan of a fictional work written about or utilizing characters originally present or mentioned in said fictional works, I think it would stand to be reasonable to assume that I do not own or claim any ownership of the original works, _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ , _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ , _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ , _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_, _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ , _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince,_ _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ , _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,_ _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , _and The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ . **I am not making any money off of this work of fanfiction, nor am I intending to do so; this piece of writing is purely for my own amusement and the possible amusement of others.**

* * *

**1. Iucunditas serpentis…aut furor**

Salazar Slytherin had absolutely no reason to be pleased. Absolutely none at all. After all, his house was ruined, his pets had scattered hours ago, fearing for their lives, and he was still here, standing among the ruins of what was once a beautiful building, digging for his latest journal. He had had it beside him when the Muggles had come, with their torches, their swords, their spears and their inane chanting. And the horses! The horses were bad enough normally, but Salazar had been in the midst of an experiment when the Muggles had galloped by, the vibrations of their hooves shaking the cottage's very foundations and disrupting his work so spectacularly that it had exploded, taking the masonry with it. His journal, of course, was warded, and his robes had been carefully crafted to slough off nearly any sort of magic that it encountered, save for a single spell, one that was not the magic with which he had been working. But Salazar Slytherin was not in any way satisfied. In fact, he was more than just a little irate. A good number of the components for his experiment had been incredibly difficult to find, and those that he had not, in fact, been able to find on his own, he had paid in both gold and future favors, both quite dearly.

And now he had to do so again. Irate was an understatement; he was most definitely livid, seething ft to scream. He did not do so, of course, as that was in no way fitting for one of his station, nor was it fitting for a wizard, regardless of how alone they might be. Instead he obliterated one of the rather ragged stones by his foot, noting absently after the fact that he could have missed and done away with his foot in the process and finding that he didn't care, for there was his journal, still open dutifully to the page at which it had been left. He scowled at the large smear left by the quill he had been using when it had gotten crushed beneath his eaves. Perhaps it was time to return home.

...

"_Mendacium manifesto._" Salazar Slytherin tossed yet another letter laden with various enchantments and compulsions he had no wish to inflict upon himself on the fire. _Why_ was this tart _so insistent_ that some kind of institution be formed? What was wrong about the apprentice system? And tutors, they were available to those who requested them, so what was the problem? It had worked for his education, and he had apprenticed to a known wandsmith who also knew his Potions and a number of other disciplines, and who kept a small menagerie for ingredients purposes. It had only taken him twelve years, and Salazar had eventually gone off to explore the world, experiment, and further his own education in the intricacies of magic. Why others could not simply do the same, he did not know; perhaps they were lazy louts who did not _actually_ seek to better themselves? Salazar snorted. Most of the wizards he had met in his thirty-five years had been lazy; _Merlin and Morgana_, even the _Muggles_ he had met had been lazy, always complaining about the work set to them. Even these newer incantations from that Roman language, Latin, were often simpler than the older, more traditional incantations and invocations. Acts of magic that one hundred years ago had needed a full ritual circle and the necessary sacrifices and components (even if those ones really weren't much at all) now could be done with a flick of a wand and a word or two.

His current research was focusing on replicating the same acts of magic through as many different means as possible, starting with wand and Latin incantation, and moving backwards to various rituals utilizing complicated diagrams, then potions, then blood-based runes. He hoped to see about utilizing dragons in the future, as, if a portion of lore he had come across was correct, they were one of wizardkind's very distant progenitors, before they ceased to speak. His latest in this experimental series had made use of dragon's blood, and it had had such a profound effect that—his wards alerted him to new post, inbound. Salazar scowled; his train of thought had been disrupted.

A pair of eagles, their feathers a burnished bronze, landed on his windowsill, bearing parchment sealed with blue ribbons and wax, glaring at him expectantly. Salazar glared back.

...

He knew he wasn't what she had expected, with his half-starved figure, ink and potion-spotted hands, and his hair—his already graying hair. He knew that at thirty-six, most wizards sill had both a full head of hair and all of its color; the purely white shock of hair at each of his temples likely brought them much surprise as they gazed at him. Yes, _them_, as in more than just that pesky Lady Ravenclaw. She had somehow managed to convince two others that her outrageous idea held merit, and was not going to give up unless he at the very least attended one of her meetings to argue his points, and possibly to be swayed by her fervor. And she certainly had great fervor. Her eyes fairly glowed as she spoke of educating the unwashed masses, and Gryffindor's had glowed along with her, although that may have been the firelight that caught his eyes so. Salazar made a mental note that red and gold was not a calming combination, especially when displayed on gleaming eyes. He absently broke the first three vocal compulsions Lady Ravenclaw 'call me Rowena, please; we're going to be colleagues soon enough' was attempting on him, and completely ignored the supposed effects of her fourth, all while having a staring contest with the warrior Gryffindor.

"… and so because of this I think we should pool our resources to make a learning institution for magic, and magical subject only, thus removing…"

Salazar had stopped listening ages ago, and was instead perusing the fire, absently wondering if any ashwinders had ever lain across the embers. Of course they hadn't, not here, but it was a nice fantasy, one that set his own chair aflame, effectively cutting off the blathering nonsense Lady Ravenclaw was spouting as two extinguishing charms and one jet of conjured water were sent his way, drenching him and third best set of robes. He stood, his mild calm broken again, and walked to the door.

"Most—ah—pleasant meeting you, Lady Hufflepuff, Lord Gryffindor… Lady Ravenclaw." He rather hoped he'd never see a single one of them again.

...

* * *

**2. Leo in Flammis**

The first thing he noted about her was that she was beautiful. She was intelligent. And she was precise. The best Enchantresses always were. He knew he had been ensnared within minutes, but he couldn't bring himself to care, instead raising the level of respect he might show her a notch. She was skilled, he would most definitely give her that, especially with how she had somehow managed to get the reclusive Master Slytherin to appear in public for the first time in nearly six years. _Six years_. Godric had barely recognized him at all, and that was only because of the cut of his robes (which he hadn't changed since the last time Godric had seen him out) and the colors he bore. Really, though, he hadn't spent very much time at all with Master Slytherin before his withdrawal into his research and travels; they had both attended several formal gatherings at the same time, after Slytherin had completed his apprenticeship, at least what he could not do on his own.

Godric recalled, he was the third Lady Ravenclaw had contacted. _No_, he amended, the fourth. Master Slytherin had been her first attempt, but her missives had failed to reach him. In one of her letters to Godric, she had mentioned that she had written Master Aesc for advice on contacting Master Slytherin. Lady Rowena had also mentioned, in her fifth message to him, that Lady Hufflepuff would be attending the first meeting as well. Lady Helga, he knew, at least. As they two were second cousins, their parents had, in an unusual arrangement, had them both tutored at the same time and with the same scholars, their educational schedules only differing when he was to learn the arts of war and she to learn a woman's etiquette and other such things deemed necessary for a Lady of this age to learn. Embroidery and needlework, or some such thing.

It was obvious to him that Lady Ravenclaw had, indeed, learned those Ladylike things, through her fine clothing and her graceful precision, though what she said was, at times, in conflict with the gentleness often expected of a Lady. Most especially was her latest point, something about doing away with tradition. Or at least that was what it sounded like to him, what with the talk of all of this formal schooling and no time to keep apprentices or apprentice at all. He'd honestly rather be trading banter with a troll—er one-sided banter, of course—than sitting in this room, with its crackling fire and too-weak tea, listening to Lady Ravenclaw spout the most ridiculous notions. At least a troll would provide some quality entertainment, and a fight at this point would be marvelously invigorating. Godric glanced at Slytherin to see if he was equally bored, and instead saw him studying Lady Ravenclaw, then Helga, before he met Godric's eyes with a modicum of surprise, and—_yes, there it was_—boredom. It wasn't the deep, lasting ennui that would drive a wizard mad, but more of a distant boredom, as if he really had heard what Lady Ravenclaw had to say, and not only had he heard it —_multiple times_— before, but that he did not care, and sought any excuse to leave.

But Lady Ravenclaw had still another topic to cover, and soon both Godric and Slytherin were lost, gazing at the fireplace. The sun had long set when Slytherin's chair had spontaneously gone up in flames, and on reflex had Godric sent a jet of water at the blaze, and again at Slytherin, whose robes had seemingly attracted some of the dancing fire.

All three of the room's occupants watched in silence as the fourth made his exit, the curt farewell fading quickly from the air.

"That man! I never! Merlin, if he isn't unpleasant! Why can he not see—" And Lady Ravenclaw was off again.

Godric grinned. Underneath Master Slytherin's sodden robes, he had spied no fewer than seven blades. And not a single wand.

..

It had taken him over two weeks for Godric to track Master Slytherin down.

The man had, reluctantly, let him into his house after a time, and what Godric had found shocked him: it only had three rooms. Even Godric's servants had more rooms than this. Slytherin had no need for any more wealth; what was he doing in a shack? But the rooms were well-kept, and filled with books, parchment, and shelves upon shelves of magical ingredients and spell components. It looked like Slytherin was doing his best to become a hermit, what with his garden outside and a good, clean brook not even a mile away. Godric's host only barely dealt him the proper courtesies, allowing him a place to sit and a warm drink to wet his throat after his morning of travel. The bread and the salt were offered more reluctantly. It was a bit of a surprise to both of them when the first thing Godric said after finishing his tea was:

"Would you do me the honor of a spar?"

Slytherin looked up from his scratching of quill upon parchment.

"No."

"And why not?"

The scribbling that had resumed stopped.

"You do not want to duel me, Gryffindor." The voice was toneless, but not angry, not yet.

Godric could say naught else without it twisting into an insult, so he held his tongue. It was several hours later that Slytherin spoke again.

"Will you be staying the night?"

Godric pondered on this for a good minute or two, "No, I do not believe so; I have infringed on your hospitality enough for today. Thank you, sir."

Slytherin nodded and fetched his cloak from where it had laid, neatly folded, on a small table near to the door.

"I wish you a pleasant and safe journey, Lord Gryffindor, and do hope I have not kept you so late as to keep you from your dinner."

Godric smirked. So the snake _could_ be courteous.

"No, not at all. You have my admiration, good sir, for being able to tolerate my interruption of your research this entire afternoon."

Slytherin snorted. Apparently those courtesies weren't one of his strong points.

Godric unhitched his horse from the post that he had found some distance from the house, one that he had found supplied with fresh water and hay for his mount, and found Slytherin glaring at the beast. Godric swung into the saddle and gave the other man a half-bow in farewell, receiving a neutral nod in return, and set out in search of an actual road; the small track on which he traveled was much too overgrown for his liking.

Slytherin was an interesting fellow, Godric mused. Yes, interesting.

...

* * *

**3. Aquila Interponit**

It was so _frustrating_! Couldn't the others see that the new ways wizards and witches could interact with magic could also revolutionize how it was taught? Couldn't they see that more magical people could be educated at once, now? It was a blessing that they could do so! Imagine the great cooperative workings they could perform without the need for bloodshed, without the need for so many awful components! If these three wouldn't help her, she'd be forced to marry again, and after the last husband, she most certainly did not want to repeat the experience! She wanted to be able to pursue her research, her experiments! Prior to her engagement, she'd devoured books as if they were the finest cheeses, savoring every word, every bit of knowledge that she came across. To be tied to another man and deprived of these things, expected to sit quietly with a needle and thread rather than at the very least a book, was appalling to her, and something that she would do her best to avoid.

It was because of Rowena's distaste for these activities that Lady Hufflepuff was most definitely necessary for the creation of this school, and for afterward; she would make a fine tutor for the girls who would likely be admitted in the more womanly arts, and, well, Rowena would be teaching them other things. Obviously. Of course, the considerable wealth at her disposal would help, as well. Why, Lady Hufflepuff had extended an invitation to tea just yesterday, and Rowena had found herself in awe of the parlor, as if she had been a small child and this was a grand palace! Lady Helga certainly wore her wealth well, she supposed.

But _that man_! Master Slytherin never responded to any of her letters, and when he finally _did_ acquiesce to a meeting, he walked out not even halfway through! _And_ he'd set a chair on fire after _clearly_ not listening to her explanation of points three through seven for why a centralized schooling system was a good idea!

Rowena's quill snapped in her hand, as her thoughts turned to the -only mostly- disastrous meeting a fortnight ago. It was obvious that none of her arguments had actually been heard, what with the room's other occupants busy assessing each other- and her, of course. She glared heatedly at the splattered ink on her page and hand, as if that would be enough to unmake the mess. Very carefully Vanishing the ink from her hand, Lady Ravenclaw went about the motions of getting herself a new page and a fresh quill and starting from the beginning again.

...

_ Lady Ravenclaw,_ she read, frowning. It was, so far, the only response she'd gotten from Slytherin aside from his confirmation of attendance nearly half a month ago. _I would thank you to cease this unreasonable harassment of my person at once. _ Harassment? She wasn't harassing him! If he would respond properly to her letters, she wouldn't continue to send so many in the hopes that he'd actually have read them!

_ I have received no fewer than sixty-three missives bearing your name and seal within the past two months, and I would have thought that my lack of reply would signal an equal lack of interest. _Sixty-three? Had it really been that many already? And no; the lack of responses hadn't. At best, the lack of responses had told her that they weren't reaching him! _ As this has been proven to be not the case, I have therefore determined that I must relay my wishes more directly: _

_ Please desist in your sending me your inane letters. If you insist on continuing their conveyance, please do refrain from applying compulsions or enchantments to any part of the missive; any communiqué serving as the vessel for one will be incinerated upon delivery._

_ Thank you, and I wish you well- I hope most dearly never to hear from you again._

_ Salazar Slytherin_

Rowena glared at the neat signature as if the act of doing so could disintegrate the parchment upon which it had been inked. She probably would have felt better if it had been a scrawled mess, and it was obvious to her that the neatness was a deliberate act to distance the writer from the written name in order to prevent that scrap of parchment's use in any kind of binding or compulsion.

She snorted; she wouldn't place those compulsions on her letters if she knew they would actually be _read_, rather than ignored. They were meant for capturing attention and ensuring that at least part of the letters were read.

Pulling another piece of parchment onto her writing desk, she took a deep breath. This letter, like the last, would have to be carefully worded.

_Honorable Master Aesc,_

_ I am writing once again to inquire how best to facilitate communications between myself and you previous apprentice. As he has been apparently incinerating all letters to him that I have sent, I again turn to you for advice on how to proceed. Your previous counsel, while incredibly useful, seems to no longer achieve the same results._

She stared at the parchment for a few, long moments, inwardly cringing at what she would next need to write. Debts were _not_ things to be trifled with, especially incurred so easily, but she had little else to offer that this man did not already have or could obtain himself. Hopefully an unspecified favor would suffice.

_ I would be beholden to you if you would offer your aid in ensuring that my missives reach their intended destination, that is, your former apprentice, now Master Slytherin. I would also like to inquire, if it is not too much of an intrusion, after which Masteries Master Slytherin obtained. I would assume that he learned Focus Craft, as that is your trade, though I am not unaware of the fact that you have many skills. As my wish is to create an institution of learning, having an understanding of the proficiencies of my fellows is most definitely necessary, and I would be appreciative of any aid in that quarter._

_My Sincerest Well Wishes,_

_Lady Rowena Ravenclaw_

_Enchantress_

_Head of the Ravenclaw Estates_

...

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**4. Dubium Mellivoron**

It was dark when Helga was woken by a tapping at her windowpanes, gently-rattling the glass in its casing, the precious, delicate screen that kept the chill spring air out, and most of the warmth from the room's fireplace in. She'd gotten back late last night, and so she was understandable made irritable at the fact that her owl saw fit to wake her before dawn, even if there were chores and work to begin this day.

She vanished the glass _only long enough_ to let her trusted courier in, and already she felt the loss of warm air keenly upon her face.

"Hetty! What are you doing, waking me this early?"

The owl looked utterly unrepentant, letting out an accomplished-sounding hoot and lifting her foot for her mistress, so that the scroll in its bindings could be removed.

It was from Godric, inquiring if she would have him for tea to discuss their new acquaintances. She wrote back that tea would be late, and that if he sent a missive of such little importance at this hour _ever_ again—_well_. She assured him that it would not be a pleasant experience for him.

By the time she had gotten the entirety of her threat onto parchment, the sky was just beginning to lighten, and her kneazle, Lyonesse, had claimed the bed as her own, refusing completely to budge. Well. It _was_ about time to be getting about the day, she supposed.

"Iris, dear? The kettle, please!"

...

Godric arrived in the Entry Chamber at precisely the time Helga had indicated, standing impatiently still as the lone manservant assigned to that part of the keep scrutinized him and one of the maids took his unneeded traveling cloak. Helga was late to receive him, and she rushed from her garden to the Chamber, barely stopping long enough to clean her hands and change her gown. Why did he have to appear on time _just this once,_ she wondered, even as Iris helped her with the ties. Mind, the Entry Chamber in both of their homes held a direct portal to the other, so he could have come even earlier—she thanked all courtesy that he hadn't. Miriam had charge of Caelia and Caron this afternoon, and they had always been pleasant babies, even as they grew into younglings; there would be little to trouble her for this visit. She glanced at her gown— black— and sighed; traditions were changing, weren't they. Carolus had asked her, before he passed, to take up that way, and in some things she certainly tried; but she felt so out-of-place in the colors of another people. Citrine, at least, she was to keep, even as the world around her changed and colors gained new meanings.

"Good Afternoon, Godric," she spoke, as she swept into the Entry Chamber and through it, towards a receiving parlor for friends, rather than acquaintances. There was no surprise at the familiarity with which she addressed the man; they'd long been friends, and this was not something either of them had hidden, even when she had been bound to her husband. The maids she waved away once the tea service had been brought, and she poured for herself and her guest in an easy motion that proved her long hours of practice, years ago. Mint and thyme danced over her tongue when she took a sip, and she let herself savor it for a moment. When that moment ended, she raised her eyes to meet Godric's gaze squarely— improper, perhaps, but propriety was overlooked often between them— and waited for him to begin speaking.

He grinned at her, breaking the tension that had built like a dry log, and began, enthusiastically.

"Master Slytherin, I've found, is an intriguing man. Did you know he lives alone? In a shack barely large enough to be called a hut? Without even a horse for company if not transport?"

"I'm to assume you visited him uninvited, Godric? Shame on you! Can you not respect the man's wish for privacy? No; you probably barged in, in the middle of his research, didn't you?"

"He performed the welcoming rites, Helga; if I'd truly been unwelcome he'd more likely have set me on fire with his door closed!" Godric beseeched his dear friend to understand, to discontinue the scolding at the very least. Helga resolved herself to a frown as the man's face turned pleading. She admonished herself for allowing the pathetic expression to affect her decisions, but she relented, waving at him to continue his recital of thoughts.

"So, he remembers the rites, you say. The Slytherin family has been doing its best to remember the Old Ways, from what I recall Mother telling me once. Did you manage to goad him into one of your- practices?"

There was a moment where Godric looked somewhere between guilty and frustrated; the answer was 'no', then.

"Oh, so you did not. That is quite well; I saw a duel of his, once. I doubt that you would have fared kindly, warrior even as you are, Godric."

"Truly? How did I miss that?"

"You were off adventuring or some such. He was still an apprentice, you know."

"And how did _he_ fare?"

"Not a scratch. Master Aesc actually came into town and made a show of smugness for days, Mistress Black told me."

Godric raised his eyebrows in invitation.

"It was quick, and vicious. Third blood, it was, and he looked so cold, Godric. He barely even moved."

Godric was obviously caught between his enthusiasm for the duel and misguided anxiety that she'd been present for it. It wasn't his fault; it was how he'd been taught in what was proper for women to see and know. Of course, _that_ battled with his knowledge that women were just as dangerous, if not more so than men, so he always pulled the most amusing confused faces whenever anything was brought up that recalled this particular conflict to mind. Helga kept her amusement to herself, both from long practice and from endless etiquette lessons.

"So, 'not even a horse,' you were saying, Godric, dear?"

"Ah! Yes, not even a horse. He left me to myself, while he attended to his research; has Mistress Black told you of what in which he apprenticed?"

"I do not recall; I know myself that Master Aesc makes his livelihood at crafting wands, but I recall he holds the title of Master in a number of things..." Helga frowned and poured herself and her guest more tea.

"Did you catch sight of what he appeared to be examining?"

"No, and he didn't seem inclined to share. His wards, though, are quite- pretty."

"Pretty, Godric?"

"They've got the fewest loopholes I've seen without also being a tangled mess, elegant lines without being either ostentatious or rigid. It would take me some time to get through those..." He trailed off, mind plainly going down the pathways of ward-breaking possibilities..

"Godric Gryffindor, you are _not_ going to try to unravel Master Slytherin's wards!"

...

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...

AN: I am aware that this fic has some gross historical inaccuracy, and a helluva lot of stuff that diverges from the accepted canon. Updates on this fic will be... slow. Wear the slash goggles if you really want to; as of yet, I'm not going to be pushing for any sort of pairings.


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